


Should've Known Better

by craple



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, basically shameless feuilly/bahorel/grantaire fuckbuddies with pining e/r on the side, ménage à trois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:05:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I still can't believe we have a car," says Grantaire, pawing at the leather seat with dried paint on his fingers and sprawling horizontally like a gigantic lazy feline after a particularly satisfying meal. Feuilly scoffs during the short pause of his smoking. "I still can't believe we let Bahorel drive."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Should've Known Better

**Author's Note:**

> uhh, take to mind that i kind of really really ship e/r? but a bit bahorel/feuilly/grantaire won't hurt, will it? enjoy the smut~ x3

Grantaire's not really sure for what reason did Eponine call them, tonight, other than celebration for – _something_. It might have to do with the rumours of promotion at the press publication she's working for, or the raised paycheck at her bar-tending job when she's not busy hunting for scandals, among others. Grantaire hopes it's both.

And it probably _is_ both, he thinks, because they are heading toward Enjolras' flat, presently, which isn't rare, far from it, but they don't usually come to Enjolras when they are celebrating for obvious reason that is the lack of liquors in his cabinet. Which means this is something big enough for Eponine that she's gathering them at Enjolras', of all places, instead of the loft Grantaire shares with Feuilly and Bahorel.

Combeferre, being the sweet accommodating lover he is, has offered to take a day off and pick everyone up for the celebration, much to everyone's pleasure. Unfortunate as it is though, he can't pick the three of them up, since his car is not _that_ big and the loft is located at the opposite direction of Enjolras' flat, so they will have to do on their own.

Feuilly's car is a black classic Moskvich that was given to him by a noble's mistress, or another. A gift for painting her so when she was unaware; a portrait so beautifully made, with a shade of melancholy on her face, in her lovely emerald eyes, that even Grantaire had to take a seat to admire every inch of the painting to truly appreciate it.

He did not ask for money, in return; he simply had these strong urges to paint her, he had said. Grantaire would have snorted if it didn't get them a fucking car for the effort.

"I still can't believe we have a car," says Grantaire, pawing at the leather seat with dried paint on his fingers and sprawling horizontally like a gigantic lazy feline after a particularly satisfying meal. Feuilly scoffs during the short pause of his smoking. "I still can't believe we let Bahorel drive."

"Hey," Bahorel says, offended. "I wouldn't be driving if the guy on the back is not so drunk he can't tell the difference between a dog and a cat, and if the guy beside me isn't trembling so bad he took out two packs of smoke in less than an hour."

Grantaire mumbles incoherently in response. Feuilly inhales and doesn't comment. Bahorel rolls his eyes. "Besides," he continues. "I thought you guys were cutting down, anyway."

"We are. I smoke only three times, four cigs today. Before we left, that was Grantaire's third bottle in a day." He drops the cig onto the street, closing the window shut and rubs his face with both hands. "That was my sixth."

"Congratulation," Bahorel deadpans. "I'll buy you chocolates and tuck you in and kiss your cheeks." It sounds honest, at least. The possibility that Bahorel will truly do it for them is not low, as he is a man who is always true to his words; Feuilly is positive he won't be drinking too much, tonight, so he can drive them both back because Grantaire is _impossible_ to be sober, at this point, also for the sake of buying them chocolates without anyone noticing.

On the backseat Grantaire scrambles for purchase, pokes his head forward to kiss Bahorel's jaw. Feuilly laughs and bats him away when he tries to do the same.

At Grantaire's mock-pout, lower lip pushed out temptingly, hints of cheap wine and nicotine and peppermint in his breath, the redness of his lips an accidental seduction no one can imitate, Feuilly leans over to ravish said lips thoroughly, making Grantaire purr in happiness.

Next to them, Bahorel lets out a dramatic pained groan. "This is why I'd rather not drive," his voice is tight. When Feuilly takes a good look at his eyes – his pupils are blown and dark, his jaw clenched. Grantaire grins against his mouth, then, and sneaks a hand between Bahorel's thighs like the sneaky cat he is. The car jerks forward.

* * *

They arrive at Enjolras' flat half an hour late, but Grantaire's body no longer shakes, despite the sobriety; Bahorel is content and smug and satisfied, and even though Feuilly's arse is sore as fuck, it's pleasant and his hands stopped trembling as much and he's more relaxed than he's been in a week.

Still, he pretends to be pissed at both men and threatens them bodily harm if the backseat isn't cleaned and proper by tomorrow noon. They have classes, after all, three of them, and the distance between the law department and art is fifteen minutes away.

Courfeyrac answers the door at the first ring of the bell. His face is already flushed, black hair a tangled mess around his head, and he reeks of chocolates and Cosette's lemon cakes and Jehan's lavender shampoo. "You guys make it!" beams Courfeyrac happily, then tugs them into the room with surprising force. "Come, come, Cosette's making lemon cakes – there's spiked honeyed milk in the living room –"

"I think we get the idea, yes, thanks," Bahorel cuts him off, an amused quirk playing on his mouth, snickering when Grantaire tackles Courfeyrac into a loose hug to direct him toward the living room. Feuilly feels himself smiling in return.

"That chocolate is a no-go if he drinks more than five glasses." Their friends never go for white, after all. Couryerac would rather spend money on something else, clothes or books or old movies, with the wine being his stress relief when sex cannot. Bahorel nods solemnly. "I will make sure he stays safe," Bahorel says, face cracking into an ear-splitting grin, and Feuilly laughs.

Enjolras greets them as they are passing through the kitchen, snatching an apple on his way to the fridge while Bahorel places three glasses on the dining table. Feuilly picks another apple to skin. He never likes eating them with the skin. A carton of orange juice is held between Enjolras' fingers from the fridge. Bahorel obediently shoves the glasses within his reach then proceeds to spike his share.

He doesn't spike Feuilly's. Enjolras' brow rises, but he doesn't comment, and waits until Bahorel joins their friends in the living room before he finally speaks. "I'm glad you can make it, even though you have classes tomorrow. Eponine was quite insistent when she announced we're celebrating for her promotion tonight."

Feuilly nods. "Yeah, R told me. He hasn't been far from his phone ever since Ponine called him, this afternoon." It took Bahorel threatening to rip the phone off his person for Grantaire to end the call and put some substantial amount of healthy food into his stomach. "She sounded very excited."

"She was," Enjolras agrees. "Combeferre almost crashed the car too, today. I was shocked enough to agree without a second thought when she asked me to celebrate at mine." Feuilly snaps his fingers and laughs. "Thought so." He downs the orange juice in one swift go and refills it almost full. Enjolras' eyes track the movement with blatant curiosity.

Taking a pity on him, Feuilly explains; "We're cutting down on alcohol and cigarettes," he tells Enjolras, smiles. "Bahorel's buying us chocolates if we manage not to get shit-faced and coughing in the morning."

Enjolras asks " _'We'_?" and his attention is shifting toward the space of his living room, where Bahorel's booming laughter is loud and Courfeyrac's whine is pathetic, and Eponine is dancing with Musichetta to Coldplay's Charlie Brown.

Feuilly nods, swallows, and refills his glass. His fingers start twitching, his palms sweaty. He is aching for the cigarettes Bahorel pickpocketed from his jacket during the stop of their ride, when Grantaire was writhing between them with Bahorel's fingers in his mouth, Bahorel's lips against Feuilly's.

It helps, the image of them, clear in Feuilly's head. Proof of their debauchery would have shown stark-naked around the pale skin of Grantaire's wrists, had Bahorel not lend his long-sleeves shirt for Grantaire to cover. It doesn't ease the guilt from Feuilly's heart though, when Enjolras immediately looks relief and longing and confused all at once, even as Feuilly confirms that yes, 'we' as in Grantaire and I, and Enjolras looks truly, truly happy.

He follows the blonde toward the living room, empty glass in hand, the carton of orange juice in the other. Cosette was making out quite heatedly with a flushed Eponine in the small circle their friends made, her tongue flicking out to sweep across Eponine's lower lip, suggestively so that Marius lets a choked-off noise signing his arousal at the display.

Musichetta who is sitting between a flustered Joly and shifting Bossuet claps happily when they're finished, handing an empty bottle toward Eponine as the others give a card they're holding to Combeferre for him to shuffle. Feuilly takes a seat on the armrest of the couch Bahorel has claimed as his own, ruffling Grantaire's curls on Bahorel's other side as he does.

"What are we playing?" he asks, holding his hand out for Combeferre to place a card, flipping it around so he can see what he gets: Queen of Diamonds.

Next to him there is a flash of two and a heart from Enjolras' card, where he keeps them secured in the pocket of his breastbone. His collar is a bit turned, revealing the pale skin of his neck, and Feuilly catches Grantaire looking before turning away.

"A new invention of Jehan's," Courfeyrac replies between giggles. "So one person spins the bottle, yeah? Say, it's Ferre's turn to spin a bottle, and the bottle spins, then it stops and points to Chetta, so Chetta has to pick one of the cards – ace, spades, clubs, diamonds, you know – and the ones that have the cards of the same sign should surrender and do what she commands you to!"

"Sounds pretty simple," says Bahorel around the rim of his glass. Grantaire shifts until he is leaning fully against Bahorel's shoulders, burrying his face into the dark brown hair to hide the slight trembling of his body. "It does explain the hot making out session between our ladies over there," Grantaire huffs out, fond and possibly aroused, linking his fingers with Eponine as she childishly sticks his tongue out at him.

Combeferre's lips curve into a sly smile. "Yes, well. You should have seen Courfeyrac standing at the balcony without any clothes on singing Florence and the Machine." Bossuet bursts out laughing, followed shortly by Musichetta and Jehan, while both Joly and Marius look traumatised at the memory.

Enjolras chuckles lowly. "At least 508 will stop bothering me from now on." He sounds amused, drinking his glass and tipping his head back, and Grantaire is losing interest on the worn seam of Bahorel's jeans and is staring at Enjolras instead. "So you _do_ have an admirer," Grantaire says, in wonder. "I bet she looks at you like you're part of the main courses at an all-you-can-eat buffet."

"Like she wants to fuck him, more like," Cosette quips bluntly, cheerfully honest and innocently gleeful. Marius looks besotted. Enjolras looks close to retching.

Grantaire laughs in amusement. "That too," he says. It doesn't sound as hollow as he must be feeling right now, Feuilly knows. He knows Grantaire better than the sarcoline of which he paints Bahorel's skin with, atop the canvas; even better than the ablicant-lovat-mauve he often shades Grantaire's eyes with.

It upsets him, sometimes, how improved Grantaire is at hiding his emotions. He wasn't such a talented liar before, Jehan had said. Look at him now.

"Shall we begin then, Ponine?" says Marius, snapping Feuilly back to reality. Eponine claps her hands gleefully and squirms around Combeferre's lap, who looks a bit uncomfortable in a good way but comfortable otherwise, and she is so very drunk, even Feuilly is embarrassed to see her now. Which is saying _something_ , considering the kind of company he lives with. No offense to Bahorel and Grantaire, of course.

He's not really in the playing mood tonight, not really, what with their deadlines being so near, and Feuilly hasn't finished a scratch of his painting when Grantaire's so beautiful already. But then again, every single piece of Grantaire's art is always beautiful, always so expressive and raw but still professional. He has a lot of things to convey through his paintings, and Feuilly thinks that he manages to get the message across, every time.

Bahorel, the blunt of the litter, always prefers Feuilly's rather than Grantaire's, though. His has always been less aggressive than Grantaire's, more _grounding_ , more his taste. Grantaire didn't look the slightest bit offended, simply regarded them with a curious tilt of his head, the delicious sensuous movement of his lips – _those lips, god be damned_ – as they widen into a mischievous smirk.

Eponine chews on her lip and breathes hard. "Okay, okay, so whoever gets the Diamonds monarchy – flip your card!"

Feuilly flips his. Then Bahorel – King of Diamonds – and Grantaire – Ace of Diamonds.

Eponine's grin is positively _evil_. Even _Bahorel_ suddenly looks nervous at the sight of her grin.

"Jehan, my darling love," she says. "You've charged that new videocam of yours, yes? Let us have it tested shall we," and whilst Jehan scrambles up and away in a flurry of aconites and nightshades and navy-blue silk shirt, Courfeyrac stands to grab the nearest seat and places it directly behind Eponine to sit. He bows in a not-mocking fashion – like, _really_ , he's not – and everyone clears out of the way as Jehan returns with the videocam at hand.

Combeferre sits back, looking amused, with an uncertain-looking Enjolras following suit. Eponine smiles prettier than even Cosette on good days. "Seating arrangement's in order," muses Eponine lowly (evil-ish). "R, the love of my life, my soulmate, get your pretty arse off the couch and situate yourself between Feuilly on the armrest – yes, there." Feuilly leans closer to Grantaire, holding himself up with his hand on Grantaire's thigh, Bahorel's fingers curling over the hem of Grantaire's sweater.

Musichetta and Courfeyrac downright _giggle_ at the display, and Eponine squirms on her chair like a toddler waiting to be fed. "Good, good. Save it for the recording." She commands Jehan to do as she bid, pressing buttons, aligning the lens of the video, until Grantaire's left leg starts bouncing from where it rests against Feuilly's thighs, warmth seeping into his jeans. His hand shoots to stop the movement, but he ends up groping Grantaire's thigh instead.

Bahorel's fingers slip beneath the sweater, the same time Feuilly's hand kneads the inside of Grantaire's thigh; tense muscles relaxing like Grantaire's body always does, during sex. Grantaire's breath catches. Enjolras looks like he's not breathing either.

Feuilly pokes the back of Bahorel's neck with his forefinger, subtly gesturing at Enjolras' way when the other man focusses all his attention on him. Grantaire is still shifting, cheeks flushed oh so lovely down to his neck, his beautiful, beautiful marked collarbone hidden beneath his sweater – a sign of arrousal Feuilly never fails to recognise. Cosette is looking at them, he sees, with something akin of wonder; Marius at her side like a blushing maiden, not sure whether he is supposed to look at Feuilly or Grantaire or Bahorel or no one at all.

Eponine's cursing like the world's jolliest sailor and Jehan is blushing upon every word that stumbles out of her drunken, furious mouth. "Fucking _finally_ ," she snarls, pointing the video at their direction. "Now, remember the night of St. Patrick's? Yes, of course you do, no matter how drunk you were I can't possibly think what could make you forget."

That particular night had been – _expressive_ , to say the least, because that night all three of them were so high on the seven fucking clouds, aroused as fuck and did not object to Montparnasse's invitation to a little bit of a gang-bang. Jehan was there, that night, and he is flushing redder than even the most ripe of apples now, just this side of horrified.

(He wasn't so when Montparanasse had his fingers inside him, his mouth around Jehan's cock, _Jehan's_ tongue working cleverly around Bahorel's cock, because he's always wanted a taste, he'd said, which just –)

"What happened on St. Patrick's?" Enjolras asks, voice tight and slightly breathless, to which Eponine simply waves him off. "Montparnasse happened," she says, lips curling (because there is no way, just _no way_ she can forget how Montparnasse had felt inside of her – _Feuilly_ still can't). "Now – oh dear, how many times have I said 'now', now? – I want the three of you to have a second base make-out session. Enjolras has bugged the couch ever since that incident with me and Ferre, on said couch, last month, so the noises you'll make will already be recorded."

Jehan laughs nervously, from her side. "Should I point out that making out _is_ a second base situation?" From Bossuet's arms, Joly shakes his head. "Probably not."

Marius looks close to fainting, or more like, _dying_.

Bahorel looks at Enjolras, brows furrowed, asking, "Is that allowed?" and Feuilly knows that he is not just talking about the making out – they are past that, he thinks, since The One Night Montparnasse thing happened – because Bahorel is a better man than him, and he doesn't blantantly grope a part of Grantaire's body where Enjolras can see it (his fingers are hidden still, Feuilly notices) and he is not an idiot.

Enjolras' jaw works. "Yes," he grits out. "It is allowed." Feuilly doesn't miss when his legs shift to cover his crotch. Bahorel doesn't either. _Grantaire_ , on the other hand, is too busy trying to trick Feuilly into grabbing his dick, which isn't so far-off, but Feuilly is not an _idiot_ as well. He spreads Grantaire's legs open, coming between them to press his body flush against Grantaire's front while Bahorel shifts to press his chest against Grantaire's back, and Grantaire _moans_ – beautifully, so _expressively_ open – when Feuilly rolls their hips together.

Courfeyrac unashamedly pulls a squirming Jehan back into his lap. The room goes quiet, and none of them moves, until Eponine's loud _"three, two, one,_ action _!"_ is heard, and Bahorel is grinning over Grantaire's shoulder, looking at Enjolras then back to Feuilly with a shit-eating grin, and Feuilly huffs and crushes his lips against Grantaire's so very red, very swollen ones.

It tastes delicious, Grantaire's everything, always. His lips still very much taste like wine, mint and Bahorel's hidden chocolate stock and Feuilly's cigarette, and his right hand is rough, calloused-painter-fingers digging into the flesh of Feuilly's bottom, pressing him closer still while his left hand covers Bahorel's own on Grantaire's belly, encouraging him further.

Feuilly is moaning into Grantaire's mouth, because he can't _not_ to – not when Grantaire is a whimpering, aroused mess between them – not when Bahorel is looking at Feuilly like that, with his dark eyes, his big hand, pressing Feuilly closer into Grantaire, until Feuilly's jeans are too tight, his cock too hard. He slips his hands down Grantaire's jeans, grateful for the one-size-too-big thing Grantaire has going on when it comes to pants, and presses the heel of his palm against Grantaire's erect cock.

Grantaire makes the most delicious sound yet – something between a whimper, a mewl, a throaty moan and a sound so needy and a bit slutty – and Feuilly notices that the state of his arousal is not only from Feuilly kissing Grantaire, or Bahorel marking his flesh with tongue and teeth – but because Grantaire has his eyes open and is looking straight at Enjolras, like he wants him to _watch_ , like he very much wants Enjolras to enjoy the show –

and Feuilly groans at the thought, thumbing the head of Grantaire's cock, while Bahorel rolls Grantaire's nipple between his fingers, he must be, the way Feuilly knows Grantaire has always liked.

Enjolras and Grantaire is an impossible thing to happen – _"in-" possibilis, possum, impossibilis_ – but if or when it does, it is an inevitability – _evitare, fatum, hitsuzen_ – waiting to happen just as well. And Feuilly simply wants to take what he can before it _does_ happen.

(He is not such a cynic, you see.)

Looking at Bahorel's fond eyes, now; the undisguised heat in his eyes, he thinks Bahorel wants the same thing too.

He doesn't stop ravishing Grantaire's lips just like Bahorel doesn't stop groping Grantaire's arse, _Feuilly_ 's arse, until Enjolras has to physically pull him away along with Courfeyrac plus a dreamy-looking Cosette in tow. Eponine is nowhere to be seen.

No one says anything when Marius asks, hey, why is Ferre's car shaking, I wonder if he's alright, and Cosette comes to pat his head fondly.

* * *

 

At the end of the night, Combeferre's car is 'off-limits' to everyone except Eponine.

No one complains.

 


End file.
